He was a perfect gentleman. Always held doors, smiled when entering a room, laughed at jokes that the teller knew weren?t funny and hoped the listeners would disagree, ate everything on his plate even if he hated it, kissed babies, shook hands, thanked his hosts politely, told trite anecdotes, and always, always promised to call them soon so they could do it again sometime. And as the door shut quietly behind them, he would slip his leather gloves back on and sigh impatiently.
?Bloody, fucking tedious waste of an evening,? he spat out, giving the closed door a look of contempt that was so mean it could melt the paint off. ?Those people are fucking ridiculous, and if you like them, Cameron, then you?re fucking ridiculous, too. Let?s go.? He jerked impatiently on Cameron?s not yet into his jacket sleeve arm and violently pulled him down the stairs.
Cameron struggled to get his coat on but didn?t fight Nicholas?s iron grip on his bony elbow. ?I?m sorry, Nicholas,? he sputtered quietly, his usual response to whatever displeased his boyfriend of one year, even if what had displeased the Brit had nothing to do with him or his doing. ?But they were really insistent on seeing us. We never see our friends from school since we graduated.?
?And that is just as well,? snapped Nicholas, throwing Cam?s arm down like it was a piece of driftwood and fumbling for a cigarette from the interior pocket of his designer jacket. ?They were idiots then and they are idiots now. We?re not going to associate with them anymore, got it?? He sneered, his usual sneer that Cameron secretly dubbed his ?Prince Nicholas? sneer, the sneer that said, ?I?ve already won this argument and there is no need to proceed any further.?
?Alright,? Cam conceded as the two ventured into the dark, chilly Boston evening. The walk took about fifteen minutes, ten of which were occupied by Nicholas?s vocal displeasure at the weather, Cameron, his job, Cameron?s wardrobe, his mother calling him last week, Cameron?s shoes, Tony Blair?s shoddy handling of Parliament, Cameron?s haircut (which Nicholas had insisted he get the mere week before), Tony Blair?s shoddy handling of Parliament and how it was nothing compared to the lousy job George Bush was doing in the states, and five of which were filled with delicious silence. When they finally reached Park Street Station, Cameron had just about had it with Nicholas?s litany of crimes against his soul.
Cam hung back while Nicholas finished his cigarette, pretending to fish for the T money in his pockets. He always paid for the T, no matter what, even when he and Nicholas went out for his birthday the week before. He fumbled in his pockets for a few seconds and withdrew a handful of quarters, all of which he deposited in the machine. Nicholas threw the still-smoking butt of his cigarette on the ground at Cameron?s feet and barged forward through the turnstile and without waiting for his boyfriend, stormed up the stairs towards the inbound train.
?Some friend you got there,? said the token taker from behind the layers of glass.
The train ride seemed longer than usual. Probably because Nicholas wasn?t speaking, or even complaining, and jerked his hand away when Cameron tried to hold it. ?No,? he said quietly, directing his attention to the other end of the train, which was empty. ?I don?t want to be touched right now.?
Exhaling, Cameron leaned back in his seat. Occasionally he would peer at the beautiful boy beside him, but only briefly because when Nicholas didn?t want to be touched, he didn?t want to be gawked at either. The train rumbled and bumped around a turn and Cam thought and thought. He remembered the first time he saw Nicholas in jazz comp class at Berklee two years before. He had just come out to his family, who were generally supportive, and his cousin Jane, who told him that she knew he was gay before he did. He pushed Jane out of his mind, his bossy, obsessive, wonderfully kind and generous cousin Jane. He didn?t want Nicholas to see into his thoughts, Nicholas did not like Jane because Jane did not like Nicholas. Jane was not fooled by Nicholas?s glossy exterior, snobby British accent and false kindnesses, she saw right through his fronts. Cam was not to bring Jane around Nicholas, and vice versa. He didn?t like choosing between the two of them, because Cameron Drew had trouble choosing between breakfast cereals.
Nicholas was not a complete monster, however, Cam told himself. He was a nice enough boy when he wanted to be, and he cared deeply for Cameron, or at least he said he did. He was willing to share Cam?s apartment with him until he got back on his feet (from what Cameron didn?t know), got on well with the rest of the Drews except Jane and Simon, and he had enough allure to keep Cam interested. He always promised Cam that they would go back to Southampton and meet his family soon. Nicholas went back three or four times a year, and he was leaving in two days to go home for his sister?s wedding. Cameron was not invited this time, because Nicholas didn?t want to steal his sister?s thunder. Understandable.
Nicholas cleared his throat as the train hurtled to a stop at Central Station. Cam stood up immediately and let Nicholas walk off before him haughtily. ?I want to go home,? the Brit said over his shoulder, walking briskly and forcing the shorter boy to practically run to catch up. He reached the building before Cameron did, and let the door shut before he reached it.
Nicholas Baudelaire was always the perfect gentleman. When that mask fit.
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<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 11, 2005 05:51 PM: Message edited by: Riotproof ]</font>
